by Val M Karren
Upon returning to my room, Nelya and I were met by two men waiting with the door open. On our entry, they both stood up from their chairs and greeted us with smiles and a nod. Nelya helped me back into the bed and exited quickly without speaking. Both men were dressed alike in light colored wool suits with brilliant white shirts and silk ties, tightly cinched at the neck. They wore decorated wing tips and carried leather-cased notebooks. They didn’t have to open their mouths for me to understand that they were from the American Embassy.
“Hello, gentlemen. Thank you for coming to see me,” I said politely. “I assume you know my name already.”
“Yes, we are happy to see you up and about, Mr. Turner. My name is Brett Richardson from the US State Department. I am the consular for citizen services here in Moscow,” the first man introduced himself and approached to shake my hand, “and this is the embassy’s chief of security, Ben Arkadin.”
Ben nodded from his chair, seeing that shaking hands was not a pleasant experience for me with my right arm wrapped up tight against my chest.
“Mr. Turner, we are of course very sorry that you got caught in the crossfire of that horrible attack on Wednesday and we are here to help you in any way we can,” Mr. Richardson pledged.
“Again, thanks for coming to see me. Can you give me any idea of when I will be released so I can go home?” I asked directly.
“We understand that that is a matter for the Russian police and the prosecutor’s office. Once they are satisfied with your statement we understand they will allow you to leave. They may ask you to testify as a witness in an inquest, but that is not even for sure. You are just one witness of many,” Richardson replied, but actually told me nothing.
Mr. Arkadin addressed me with a different sharpness from his chair. “Mr. Turner, we’ve come about a different matter. We hope that you might be able to clear up a few questions for us today. Our security personnel photographed you on Wednesday afternoon lunching on the Arbat Street with a person named Delmore Santander who is a mercenary and arms dealer to the world’s regimes who are, let’s say, not friends of the United States of America, and certainly not to our mission here in Russia. Can you explain to us how you know this man and what your meeting was about?"
I could not believe what I was hearing. My mouth went suddenly very dry and I stammered my surprise and disbelief at what I was hearing.
“I don’t know anybody by that name,” I answered half choking.
“Do you recognize these photographs? This is you in the photo, correct?” Arkadin handed me a photograph taken from behind when Del and I were sitting at the open cafe eating lunch, trying to navigate our way through mafia and FSB dragnets.
‘Yes, that is me with Mr. Del Sanning of the CIA. You could say he was trying to recruit me to work for the agency. I told him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine,” I said handing the photograph back to Mr. Arkadin.
“How did you come into contact with him if I may ask?” Mr. Richardson asked.
“I became acquainted with him many months ago during my studies in Nizhniy Novgorod. He was there as a businessman with the agency, trying to build a hotel. He only told me the truth when we met for lunch here in Moscow. I didn’t know before that,” I answered truthfully.
“Mr. Turner, what is your purpose for being in Russia?” Mr. Arkadin asked in a suspicious tone.
“I am studying history, language and literature,” I answered innocently.
“What was the reason for your visit to Moscow then?” he questioned further.
“A cultural excursion to the Tretyakov gallery. Mr. Sanning invited me for lunch when I told him I would be in Moscow at the same time as him,” I was now lying but hid my discomfort under the pain of my wound.
“Do you know where this man is now?” pointing to the photograph.
“No sorry. He was traveling on business and I didn’t know the rest of his plans,” I improvised
“Are you aware of any dealings he may have had with arms producers while in Nizhniy Novgorod? You understand the significance that this city has for Russia’s aviation sector,” he asked and implied in one sentence.
“No, not really. I am just studying linguistics,” I lied again.
“Why do you believe Mr. Santandar works for the CIA and was trying to recruit you?” Arkadin pushed.
“He said my language skills were some of the best he had seen, above that of American agents and thought I could be trained to best serve our country with that skill,” I wasn’t lying this time.
“Did he tell you that he works for the CIA?” Richardson interrupted to ask.
I paused to reflect for a moment, “No, he never confirmed that. I even asked him straight-up, but he told me that he was not free to confirm such an answer to me. It sounded plausible to me,” I said honestly shrugging my left shoulder.
“If you have any further contact with him, you should inform us immediately,” Arkadin insisted.
“I can’t imagine that I will ever see him again. He doesn’t have any of my contact details in the USA where I will be going as soon when I am free to leave,” I affirmed.
“Do you need any travel documents, Mr. Turner or other support to leave Russia?” Richardson inquired.
“No, I have my passport with me and a valid return ticket. I’m good. I just need to get healthy enough to travel,” I answered.
“We will be able to help you leave with a government airplane as soon as the police release you to go. It could take you weeks to be ready to fly commercially. We feel it is important to get you home as quickly as possible,” Richardson added. “Please call me at this number directly when you are cleared to leave. We’ll arrange an embassy car to take you to the airport and fly you to D.C.”
“Thanks for the offer. I’ll certainly call you when I’m released.” I took his offered card and put it on the bedside table with no intention to contact him voluntarily. The men excused themselves and said they would look in on me again in a few days to see how I was healing.
As the door closed behind the Americans I felt my gut sink and my face turn pale. I gazed out the window with tears blurring my vision. I cursed again the day that I first arrived in Russia. I cursed the years of studying the language, Pushkin, and Dostoyevsky. I cursed both Lenin and Yeltsin for both the hope and the upheavals that they ushered in. I cursed my idealism and swore in my fear that once gone, I would never come back! An uncontrollable urge to flee rose up in my limbs. I started from my bed and removed the hospital scrubs and slippers I had borrowed and began to put on my own denim jeans. The white hospital tee shirt would have to do.
As I sat in my chair struggling to put on socks and shoes with one hand the door to my room opened without warning. I looked up with exasperation and impatience to see two guards in suits and ties barge in. They opened all my cupboards and closets, looked under the bed and inspected the lavatory. I was instructed to stand. One guard frisked me from head to toe and between my legs while the other stood by to watch. What were they looking for?
“Please sit on the bed and do not move!” I was instructed.
I sat on the bed without an argument while the two guards stood at attention between the window and my bed leaving the door wide open and nothing stopping me from exiting the room in my bare feet. I looked again at the twin guards and gave a questioning look. One motioned for me to stay put on the bed but did not speak again.
From the corridor, a commotion was heading toward my door. A group of five people, all of them speaking busily with each other in excitement, appeared at the door. I feared that I was going to be arraigned and charged with espionage by Major Dobrynin. If the Americans had photos of me with Del on the Arbat street they have already figured out that I was with him at the museum too. My nerves were completely shot. Horrible visions of a trial, prison and firing squad rushed through the neurons and synapses of my brain at light speed. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly and push out the visions of doom swirling behind my eyes. The group e
ntered my room.
A cameraman with a large television camera on his shoulder walked cautiously backward toward me and then around the foot of my bed. Just behind him, a woman with a microphone on a wire connected to the television camera also walked backward into the room. To my disbelief, the next figure who strode into my room was a tall, barrel-chested, silver-haired man, in a sharp blue wool suit with the flag of the Russian Federation pinned to his lapel. President Yeltsin looked serious yet he smiled as he approached my bed and held out his hand to me. I timidly offered my left hand and he shook heartily with both of his. Photographers behind him took pictures of our handshake. Shutters flickered like hummingbird wings. They called for turned heads and an extended handshake.
“We are very sorry for your distress!” the President said to me in a clear, slow baritone voice.
“Thank you very much, Mr. President,” I replied demurely nodding my head in deference.
“We will find those responsible for this terrible attack on innocent people and punish them!” he bellowed for the camera, looking at me.
I thanked him again and withdrew my hand.
“Will you be going home soon?” he questioned.
“I hope so! The doctors and nurse are taking good care of me,” I offered.
“Yes, they are the best in Russia. I wish you a quick recovery,” he replied and then clasped my left shoulder and looked me in the face with a sincere expression of concern. The photographers were rabid for this photo and Yeltsin stood still for another five seconds letting the press satiate itself.
As quickly as the guards and the entourage had entered, they left my room and went next door where another victim of the shooting was convalescing. I listened to the President bellow the same deliberate words of canned comfort to the woman in the next room who was obviously sobbing and blubbering something back to him. She would surely make the seven o’clock news!
Nelya came quickly to see if the commotion had disturbed me and to help me get comfortable again.
“Why are you dressed?" she demanded and picked up the scrubs on the floor behind my bed and demanded to help me change again, “You know that you can’t leave. So please stay comfortable and rest. It is almost time for dinner.”
The following morning at ten o’clock sharp Major Dobrynin came into the room together with my nurse and asked to take a seat. He greeted me with a nod and a smile on his well-tanned face. He had the face of a stern man but kind eyes and moved in a non-aggressive manner.
“I’ve asked the nurse to stay with us for this discussion in order to help you stay comfortable and bring anything you might need while we speak,” he explained without any hesitation. He had come for a specific purpose and was prepared to see it though.
“I understand our President came to visit you yesterday evening,” he said in a friendly manner.
I nodded without a word.
“You should be honored. He’s a good man who has Russia’s best interest in mind. I’d take a bullet for him!” he affirmed with pride.
“Were you with him in 1992?” I asked politely.
“Yes, but I was not with him that day when he stood on the tanks. Wish I could have seen it!” he was obviously a great admirer of the man who he had sworn to protect. Changing tones suddenly Dobrynin started the official business, “Mr. Turner, I have a number of questions that I need for you to answer with as much detail as you can recall about the shootings in the museum on Wednesday afternoon.”
“I will do my best to remember,” I assured him.
“Please start by relating to me what you saw and experienced in the museum that day,” he instructed.
I didn’t know how to start the story and I hesitated and looked at him and then at Nelya. I knew if I started such an interrogation with a lie that it would only be bad for me. There is no way that I could construct a story other than the truth to explain why I was in Moscow, what I was doing at the Gallery and why the FSB agents were present. After my interview and questions from the embassy staff the day before I was careful to anticipate that they already knew half the story. They had probably already spoken with Tatyana, the guide who I fell on and who Del led out of the exposition hall with a machine gun in hand. They’d want to know who had packed my wound and from whom I had taken a shirt from to stop the bleeding on my shoulder. I knew that the physical evidence and the other eye witnesses would contradict any story I could create. I stalled.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know if I’m ready yet to talk about this. It’s all so fresh,” I bluffed.
“I understand, but it is very important that we speak now before you start to forget,” Dobrynin insisted.
I took a deep breath, “Major, how much time do you have?” my voice shook from nerves.
“That depends on what you have to tell me, Mr. Turner,” he said putting away his pen and closing his notepad. He looked through me and leaned towards me in his chair.
“Sir, what kind of protection can you offer me if I tell you everything I know?” I asked emphatically.
“You are in one of the country’s most secure facilities,” he offered.
“After this interview can you help me leave Russia very quickly?” I pushed him.
“If you have committed no crimes, then you will be free to leave Russia as soon as your doctor gives his consent,” his voice stayed calm and said nothing rash.
“That’s not good enough, Major. Can you get me out tonight if I tell you what happened there Wednesday?” I was emphatic.
“You first tell me everything that happened as you know it, and I will judge what type of protection you might need,” Dobrynin assured.
I took another deep breath. “I was the reason that both the FSB agents and the Chechens were in the gallery that day. I am the reason that they were all gathered around the one painting. I was shot by an FSB agent and now—because I was being followed and watched—now how many people are dead? Twenty-three or twenty-four in total?” I confessed, “It’s not my fault but it is because of me.”
“That’s a big claim for a young student, Mr. Turner. You may be feeling like you were a target because you were shot in the chaos, but I can assure you that they were not there for you.” Dobrynin said dismissing what he thought was the confession of a survivor’s guilt.
I doubled down, “Major, I was there in the company of a man who is either a CIA agent or an international terrorist if I am to believe the officials from my embassy.” I insisted, “We know each other from Nizhniy Novgorod where I am a student and he was involved in the theft of Russian military secrets. The FSB was in pursuit of me because they believed I was transporting the disc or discs for him from Nizhniy to Moscow. The Gallery was agreed to be the place of the handover, but I was carrying nothing for him. He was bluffing the Chechens. Either he still has the disc or he destroyed it like he claimed.”
The Major held up his hand to stop me and asked for the nurse to excuse us. Nelya protested telling Dobrynin that she had security clearance as hospital staff. He politely acknowledged that fact but explained that it was above her clearance level. She complied with his request and exited quickly without further discussion.
I continued, “I was shot when Sanning handed one of the men my claim tab from the wardrobe. I guess he had agreed to make the swap in this way so that nobody would see any goods trading hands. As soon as the FSB agents saw the handover, I believe they drew on the Chechens. I didn’t see anything before I got shot and then all hell broke loose. I saw the last gunmen shoot and kill three of the FSB agents at the same time he got a bullet to the forehead.”
“Mr. Turner. Will you be willing to sign a statement to this effect?” he asked solemnly.
“If I can leave here tomorrow, yes!” I blurted out.
“Can you tell me how your associate acquired the military secrets you believe he was smuggling?” he asked with some doubt.
“He murdered, or had murdered a local mafia boss in Nizhniy Novgorod, Mr. P. who was the son the famous Ivan Sergeyev
ich S., a top aviation engineer at the Sokol research facility for the MIG aircraft. I understand that Mr. P. was trying to sell these to a man from Kyrgyzstan who would sell them through to Iran. That is the story that Sanning told me at the least,” I proffered the theory with fluency.
“Can you offer any proof about these events?” Dobrynin emphasized his disbelief.
“Last weekend, Mr. P. was murdered, that is really all I can prove. The American Embassy has photos of me meeting Sanning in the city on Wednesday just before we went to the Gallery. I don’t know if they will show those photos to you. My guide at the museum can verify I was with him. The rest are dead. Del has disappeared. The only other proof I can offer is in the address book in my bag that I checked at the Gallery,” I conceded.
“What role did the FSB agents have in these events?” Dobrynin began taking notes.
“They arrested me in Nizhniy Novgorod. As I know Sanning well and did some ad-hoc work for him they believed I was involved with Del’s espionage work. I helped them to make contact with him again via a telephone number in Sweden after they lost track of him. They brought me to Moscow and followed us from the Arbat meeting to the Gallery. Del was very careful to make sure they followed us. It seems to me he set the whole thing up and knew that the FSB and those wanting the disc would shoot each other for it,” I explained.
“And where is this person now?” the Major asked.
“Sanning? The last I saw him he helped our tour guide leave the gallery room where all the shooting happened. He packed my wound, gave me his shirt to put pressure on it, and while I had my eyes closed he just disappeared into the crowds I guess,” I speculated.